Page 16 of Lucky
Because yeah, I’ve got a great job and some shiny stuff.But I’m also the guy who eats dry cereal out of the box and forgets to buy toilet paper.I’ve got a mom who still texts me reminders to take my vitamins and a tendency to sleep in my socks when it’s cold.
I am average.At least in many of the ways that count.
“She said she wants a guy with back pain by thirty,” I say aloud as we reach the lockers.
Penn chuckles.“Well, you do complain about your shoulder after games.”
“That’s not back pain.”
“It’s hockey,” Atlas adds.“Everything hurts eventually.”
I open my locker, rummaging through until I find my spare toothbrush.“Exactly.I’m a walking catalog of moderate aches.I’m tailor made for her.”
“You’re delusional,” Penn says, slamming his locker shut.
“Maybe.But I’m also committed.”
They shake their heads, but I can tell they’re kind of into it.Even if they’d never admit it.
As we hit the showers, I’m already planning.I’ll need to borrow someone’s car, something without seat warmers and leather upholstery.Maybe I’ll dig into the back of my closet for that one hoodie my mom got me before I signed my rookie contract.No cologne, no watch, and absolutely no mention of the fact I earn millions of dollars every year.
If I’m going to convince Winnie Shaw that I’m the average guy she’s looking for, I’ll have to prove it the old-fashioned way.
In person.
With snacks.
CHAPTER 6
Winnie
Iarrive atschool a full fifteen minutes early, which might be a sign of the apocalypse.The sky is that washed-out gray that always seems to hover over Pittsburgh for most of March.The color and dampness produce a moody feeling, like it can’t decide if it wants to rain or simply inconvenience everyone with a steady mist.My windshield wipers give a lazy swipe as I pull into the small staff lot behind the school, tires crunching over leftover grit from last week’s snow.
Across the lot, the main drop-off loop is busy with minivan and SUV doors flinging open, backpacks half-zipped, tiny humans darting out with jackets flapping and sneakers untied.I can’t help but grin at the chaos of it all and while it can be just… a lot… that right there epitomizes why I love teaching five-year-olds.Parents shout reminders about lunch boxes and I spot Mr.Martin from third grade already intercepting a rogue dodgeball that escaped the playground.
Bloomfield Elementary isn’t exactly Pinterest-worthy.The brick exterior is faded, the flower beds are dormant and filled with last fall’s forgotten mulch, and the playground fence leans slightly like the kids take a battering ram to it at recess.But it’s ours.Warm, lived-in, and full of crayon-scented memories.And today, for once, I’m early enough to witness it coming to life.
I’ve got my coffee, my tote bag full of construction paper for a new art project, and a mental checklist running at high speed.Bulletin board refresh.Counting bears inventory.Find out who keeps putting googly eyes on the math manipulatives and rather than chastise, I intend to praise their creativity.
And maybe—just maybe—try not to obsess over the fact that a professional hockey player made two TikToks about me this week.
Last night, I saw his stitch come through.I didn’t need my friends texting me that they saw it, because despite the fact I turned him down, I’d been wondering if he’d give up.I expected him to, because why would a man like that want to waste time on my social experiment?He has nothing to prove, which led me down darker paths.
Maybe he’s using me as a joke.Maybe he’s going to turn this into some sort of fodder for his own TikTok channel.The idea of it makes me queasy and the more I think about it, the more I have to consider that’s exactly what’s going on.
I mean… his stitch wasn’t much of anything.
“I can be average.And I think you’re seriously discounting the value of snacks.I bet I can change your mind.”
I have no clue if that was a rebuke to me to not be so short-sighted or perhaps it was a promise he’d show me just that.It’s been playing on a loop in my brain like a cursed earworm.
With his smirk.That ridiculous face.The unreasonably charming delivery like he was already imagining us on a picnic blanket sharing Doritos and childhood embarrassments.
When I woke up this morning, I told myself I wouldn’t watch it anymore.
But I’m weak willed and watched it three times while Buttermilk stared at me disapprovingly.I avoided his gaze that saidGirl… you are being stupid.
The comments didn’t help my resolve.My followers and those who don’t even follow me were resoundingly in favor of me going out with him.Sure, there was the occasional nasty comment that he was way out of my league, but I ignored those.I learned early on if you put yourself out there in the public realm, you must grow a thick skin.
